


to rule & to conquer; master & monster

by Anonymous



Series: bend & break; give & take [7]
Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: AU, Alcohol Abuse, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Flashbacks, Incest, M/M, Past Child Abuse, Trauma, handjobs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-05
Updated: 2018-08-05
Packaged: 2019-06-22 08:02:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15577416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: it's the anniversary of nathan's death, and riko and ichirou face different ghosts in the halls of castle evermore.the young lord stakes his claim over his butcher.part of the bend & break universe, but can be read as a standalone





	to rule & to conquer; master & monster

**Author's Note:**

> this is set between chapters 15 & 16 of sugar and spice, and it involves ichirou and riko discussing riko's abusive childhood, and then having sex. neither is in a particularly good headspace as it happens. 
> 
> you don't need to have read other parts of the series to understand this story.

It’s not that he hasn’t been back to Evermore before. Being Ichirou’s butcher means following his Lord wherever he goes on business, including haunting the high ceilings of his childhood home. And he couldn’t well go without seeing Kevin during exy season, when Court was training and doing drills on the court, running twelve hour days to keep their impeccable shape.

When Ichirou, had waved him out so he and Stuart Hatford could harp at each other privately, he hadn’t been able to resist the temptation. He sat in the VIP section, at the top row, and watched the Ravens’ evening practice. In his black suit, and with the lights for the audience sector dimmer, no one had noticed him, and he could observe, quiet and unnoticeable as a shadow. The new coach was an ex-Raven he’d known. He commanded the team through drills with the same easy authority as his uncle once held. Riko wondered if he made them call him Master, but wasn’t curious enough to try to find out. He was content, just to observe. 

Exy. The sport that would have made him King. Every mistake made him grit his teeth, every missed pass made his right hand curl instinctively. He could play better. He had played better. Those unsure stumbling first years made a mockery of his aborted life’s work. If it was him on that court, he would have rained fire and fury on them, and fuck ending practice so they could get dinner, he’d have kept there until they fucking got it. Food was a luxury for the winners, a reward for success, it was not a -  
It was not a right. That’s what he had been thinking. Unruly dogs got punished, and did not get fed. In the Master’s equation of children rearing, there was no carrot. Only stick. 

He stayed in the seats watching the unfortunate stragglers who’d underperformed run extra laps, and then stay to clear up the court. He started making his way down only when they were finishing up, carefully winding his way between the seats and down the stairs. The door towards the changing rooms shut just when he was entering the code in the keypad, to walk out onto the court, His polished black leather shoes squeaked on the smooth shiny floor. He breathed in deeply, and then breathed out. 

He knew the court like he knew the back of Kevin’s hand. He’d grown up on the court. He picked one of the balls up from the bucket, and weighed in carefully in his hand. He wondered if he still had it in him. He couldn’t run around, but he could definitely aim a shot still. 

He was considering grabbing a racket from the equipment room, just to see if he could, just for fun, but exy had never been fun. Exy was his life. The only reason he was allowed to live, was that he knew what he was doing on the court, and nowhere else. 

“Do you miss it?” 

 

He dropped the ball, and whirled around. Ichirou had come down the stairs between the bleachers the same way Riko had, and was waiting for him in the doorway, partially shielded by plexiglass. 

“Yes, my Lord.” Riko said stiffly. “All the time.” 

He picked the ball up and put it back in the bucket carefully. 

“They didn’t put it away,” he said, waving his hand at it. “They’re going to be in trouble tomorrow.” 

“Oh?” Ichirou arched one elegant eyebrow, waiting for him to continue. 

“If you… underperform, you get… punished. Extra laps, extra drills. Cleaning up after practice. They didn’t do a thorough job out of it. The players that - “ 

“The players that had to clean up today,” Ichirou finished. “I see. Do you know what will happen to them?” 

“More drills, probably.” Riko shrugged. “It’s not like. Before.” 

“Before. You mean when my uncle was in charge?” 

 

“Yes.” 

“What would have happened then?” Ichirou asked. His voice was very quiet, and for a moment Riko wasn’t sure he’d heard him. 

He made his way across the court slowly. He was ready to leave now. He brushed shoulders with Ichirou on the way out, and it took all the strength in his body not to flinch. 

“I would have been beaten, Lord.” he said simply. 

He wasn’t sure he could stand being in there anymore. The tall ceilings, and rows of empty stands made him claustrophobic like nothing else. He didn’t quicken his pace, and he didn’t wait for Ichirou to follow him, but he had to get out of there, before the panic attack hit. He exchanged curt nods with the bodyguard on his way out, and only quickened his pace when he was completely out of view. 

When he was done vomiting coffee in the bathroom of Lydia Shetfield’s office, he splashed cold water on his face, until the blotchiness was gone from his skin, and ran his hands through his hair to tame it. Satisfied and looking distinctly more put together, he walked back into the darkened room. 

He rummaged through the desk drawers until he found her beauty bag, and then used one of her bobby pins, and a nail filer to unlock her safe. None of the paperwork looked particularly interesting, and the few jewelry boxes she kept at Evermore, where the security was much better, were mostly gifts from him, but at the back was the real jackpot. The booze Lydia had inherited from the Master. He ran his fingers over the bottles, and pulled out the Macallan, when he felt the cool smooth shape of the lalique bottle. 

Lydia, ever devoted to the aesthetics of femininity which her Southern Belle upbringing demanded, would never do something like keep scotch glasses in her office, so he made do with her coffee mug, which was completely on brand - official Ravens merchandise. He recognized it distinctly - she’d asked him to autograph it when he was still in hospital, when it had been perfectly clear to both of them that he would never play again, that his career was over - 

It was, probably, the only relic of that long ago time, that didn’t have Kevin’s signature beside his. He took a deep satisfying mouthful of liquor, felt it slide down his throat, a slow, steady burn, and breathed. 

Lydia’s office was probably his favorite place in the whole building, decorated to her extravagant, artistic taste, with its cream rugs, and delicate rosewood furniture, the tasteful cherry red armchairs and the floral oil canvasses on the walls with their glittering gold frames. If it ever came to it, without a question, Lydia would have been his first choice for a sham marriage of convenience. 

He felt more settled here, standing in the center of the room and looking at the peaceful landscapes. Her birthday was coming up, maybe he ought to place a bid at Sotheby’s for something spring-themed. He hoped she’d be in early enough tomorrow that he might get to see her, before another round of being insulted by Stuart Hatford. The man seemed to hate him, and he wasn’t even dating Neil anymore. 

He debated between having another mug of scotch, or just grabbing the whole bottle for the road, and reimbursing Lydia later, but the knowledge that he would inevitably pass by Tetsuji’s office on his way to his guest room in the tower made him consider, briefly, but without a hint of shame, just sleeping on Lydia’s sofa. 

He wondered if it was possible to love and hate a place as much as he hated and loved Evermore. He had not seen outside those wine-colored walls until the last tresses of those meant-to-be-golden years called childhood had passed by between his scarred fingers, and by then, he had no appreciation for the world that adored him. 

The sick fear that rose in his stomach as his feet took him closer to that dreaded door rose into hysteria when he realized the door was open. Rationally, he knew there was no way his uncle would be waiting for him, sat behind his desk with an inscrutable expression, to look up with cold disapproval curling his lips. At most, he’d just run into the new coach, and have a chat about the new season. 

Or maybe a careless assistant had forgotten something. Countless reasons for the door to be open and the light to be on. 

“Come on,” he murmured to himself in Japanese. He took a solid swig of the bottle to steel himself. “It’s just a room with a door. Come on. Coward.” 

He stepped into the light. And then he took another step. 

“I thought you’d gone to bed already.” 

His mortal soul departed from his body in three brilliant seconds during which his brain attempted to catch up with the reality that Tetsuji was rotting in Vermont, too far away to possibly be able to judge Riko on his bedtime. 

“I apologize,” Ichirou said quietly. “I have startled you again.” 

Riko breathed very deeply. 

“It is… my fault, my lord. I was lost in thought, I was being careless. Inattentive.” 

“Come in,” Ichirou ordered. So Riko did. He kneeled smoothly, ignoring the screaming in his knee as he did, and set the bottle on the carpet next to him carefully, then folded his hands in his lap. He did not look Ichirou in the eye. He would never dare. 

“You have behaved yourself very well today. It pleased me.” 

Riko bowed his head, and let himself sink into the praise. 

“The way Stuart Hatford spoke of you, while you were in the room… offended me,” Ichirou continued quietly. 

Riko shrugged gracefully. “It is of no consequence to me, my Lord. I know what people say about me.” 

“And it doesn’t bother you? That they think you are an uncontrollable monster?” 

Riko shrugged again. He looked up, and locked eyes with Ichirou’s gloved hands. “I am, my Lord. Your monster.” 

“Have you taken your medication?” Ichirou asked. He was walking around Riko slowly, circling him, studying him. It was only under his merciless eye that Riko never felt himself lacking, but right now, in this room - 

“I have not, my Lord,” painfully he failed as though he’d failed some test he wasn’t even aware of. 

That’s how it always was with the master. There was a game, and there were rules, but Riko didn’t know the rules, only the Master did, so he had no way of ever knowing if he was being punished fairly, but always, he failed at the game, always, he underperformed, was lacking, was presenting poorly lessons he’d been meant to learn by that man’s cane. 

“Why not?” Ichirou asks. It is impossible to say if he’s angry. 

“You said you needed me at my sharpet, Lord.” 

How dare you try to make excuses? Do you think your excuses will matter in the real world? If you were faced with Lord Moriyama himself? Do you? 

Ichirou sighs. There it is. Riko braces himself for a backhand that does not come. 

“I do not ask you to endanger your health for me farther than what it necessary in your line of work, Riko,” Ichirou says, and sounds impossibly sad. “Take your medication when prescribed, as prescribed. You are your sharpest when you are capable of thinking clearly, because all the chemicals in your brain are balanced out, is that not true?” 

Riko swallowed hard, but had no words to reply. 

“I know my uncle did not allow you to go onto the medication that would have helped you when you were a teenager,” Ichirou crosses over and walks to the desk, leaning on the heavy mahogany. He sounds impossibly tired of the endless mess his father and uncle have left on his hands. 

“He did not,” Riko confirms. “He claimed it made me … slower. In practice. Less...adequate, my Lord.” 

“You are talking about the mood stabilizers that would have curbed your violent outbursts, of course.” Ichirou says in the same mild tone. It’s not a question, so Riko doesn’t answer verbally, but he nods. He knows that Ichirou knows. All of it, about the Nest. He knows Nathan told him. But they’d never really talked about it. There was never time, there was always something else. 

But of course, Ichirou is entitled to his lapses of sentiment - It’s only a day or so to the anniversary of that whole bloody mess in Baltimore. The blow of Nathan’s death had left him duller. He wonders sometimes, if Ichirou ever knew it was Riko that shot that fatal bullet, and if he would ever forgive him for it, should he find out. 

“I hated you,” Ichirou says. “When I was a child. Because of you my mother was dead, and I had no father. I know better now, than to blame you for what became of us both. In many ways … you became a victim of my own failures.” 

“Don’t - don’t say that, my Lord. It isn’t true - “ 

“It is. I used to tell Father that you should have been born first. You’d have done a fine job, running the empire. You still would. You know that, don’t you? That in the event of my death, it is you who will - “ 

“Please,” Riko repeats. “Please, don’t say that, I can’t - “ 

“My poor babybird brother,” Riko feels as though he is being mocked, and praised at once. “How is your heart still so soft after all this time, I wonder?” 

“My heart belongs to you. All of me, I belong to you, my Lord.” 

“Stand up,” Ichirou orders. “I have told you before, that you of all people do not belong on your knees in my presence.” 

He waits patiently for Riko to manage, leaning heavily on his good leg. He has to admit, watching his younger brother struggle is somewhat enjoyable. He would not have made him stand upright all day, and would certainly not have left him kneeling so long if he did not enjoy graceful lines of his handsome pale face carved out in a carefully blank expression to mask his pain. 

“Come to me,” he orders, and Riko obeys. He is like a puppet on beautiful strings that all belong in Ichirou’s hand. He wonders sometimes, if Tetsuji had been kinder, if Riko would have grown with less of a pathological desperation to be owned and commanded. 

Ichirou looks at him carefully, studying the smooth handsome lines of his face, the dark ink of his tattoo, shifted into the kanji for butcher, a little private joke. 

Riko is looking at him expectantly, his breath stilted. Ichirou reaches out a hand, and helps steady him. Riko, touch starved still, after all these years, leans into his grasp, his soft mouth parted but he doesn’t speak, doesn’t make a sound when Ichirou pulls him in for a kiss, claiming his mouth possessively, his teeth sinking into Riko’s lower lip. 

The door to the office is still half open, and anyone passing by could see, and it wouldn’t matter if he has his brother bent over his uncle’s old desk - no one would speak a word against him, because that’s what being lord Moriyama means. 

When he pulls back, Riko’s eyes are blown wide, and he’s short of breath, staring at Ichirou like he’s never seen him before. They’ve done this before, kissing, touching. To Ichirou, Riko is a beautiful stranger, and a dangerous charming possession. They have never been brothers. 

“My lord,” Riko whispers. There’s a softness and a wonder in his voice, every time he’s shown tenderness reacting like it’s the first time. 

Ichirou runs a hand down his arm carefully. 

“It’s this room, isn’t it?” he asks, not unkindly. “It makes you afraid.” 

Riko nods, not trusting himself to speak. Ichirou’s eyes are soft. 

“I’m sorry I didn’t save you earlier,” Ichirou says, and means it. He hadn’t been able to help his father while he wasted away, and he’d been too late to save Nathan as he bled out like a dog on the floor of the Baltimore house’s basement, and his brother was a broken half-creature, who only came to life behind the trigger of a gun. He was one of the most powerful men in the world, and he couldn’t save anyone, yet Riko still looks at him like he makes the run rise. 

“It’s not your duty to save me,” Riko says. “It was my place.” My place, to be here at our Uncle’s feet, being beaten within an inch of my life. 

“And now?” Ichirou asks, curiously. 

“Now?” Riko echoes. 

“What’s your place now?” Ichirou clarifies, and takes adeliberate step forward, crowding Riko against the Master’s old desk. 

“At your side,” Riko says with certainty. “Until you will me away.” 

Ichirou nods, more to himself than anything, and takes another deliberate step forward. The back of Riko’s thighs hits the edge of the desk, and he stills, looking at once trapped, and willing to accept whatever Ichirou doles out, be it pleasure or pain. 

Ichirou goes for another kiss, wrapping an arm around Riko’s waist, and pushing his thigh between Riko’s legs. Riko moans into his mouth eagerly. 

“Sit on the desk,” Ichirou orders gently. “I was going to have you bend over, but I don’t want to aggravate your knee any further.” 

The noise Riko makes is the most beautiful thing in the world, as he carefully sits on the dask, as if he’s afraid Ichirou will change his mind about touching him. 

Ichirou is not used to denying himself things. He was raised to take. He’d taken everything from Riko without meaning to, and Riko had given him nothing but love and loyalty in return. Ichirou could reward that. Would reward that. 

He claims his brother’s mouth for another kiss, while his hand wanders down Riko’s chiseled body, nimble fingers making quick work of his belt and zipper, pushing them aside to palm Riko through his silk underwear. 

Riko leans back on the desk, baring his throat, and Ichirou can’t release the invitation, pressing his mouth to the pale skin, and biting down hard. He pushes the fabric aside, and wraps his hand firmly around Riko’s length. 

His palm is warm and dry. It will burn and it will hurt, and Riko thinks good. He’s long forgotten how to enjoy a life that doesn’t involve pain. He closes his eyes. He wants to forget where he is. He wants Ichirou’s hands and mouth to rewrite everything that happened to him in this room. He tries to keeps his hips still all the same. He hasn’t been given permission to move. 

Ichirou lavishes bites and kisses on his throat. Blood stains the collar of Riko’s crisp white shirt. Ichirou runs his thumb over the slit of Riko’s cock, leaking precome, and smears it down. 

“Don’t move,” Ichirou warns, his breath hot on Riko’s skin, “And don’t come until i tell you to.” 

“Yes, Lord,” Riko murmurs, nodding fervently, his eyes still closed. 

“Look at you,” Ichirou says, voice thick with praise. “You’d do anything I order, wouldn’t you?” 

“Yes, my lord.” 

“You’d never betray me, would you?” 

“I would not, my lord.” 

Ichirou finally, mercifully, starts to move his hand. 

“Tell me more about how you were punished.” Ichirou orders, and Riko stills. He’s still painfully hard in his master’s grip, but suddenly his mouth is dry and he can’t breathe. But to disobey one of Ichirou’s direct orders… it’s unspeakable to him. 

He opens his mouth. Then he closes it. Ichirou is patient, but his hand has stopped moving again, and Riko wants that movement back, and he wants to forget, and he wants to tell Ichirou and beg him to make the nightmares better. 

“He’d make me bend over the desk,” he says softly, and Ichirou strokes him painfully slow. “And he’d take his cane. He used to make me count. If I lost count, he’d start all over again. Until I got it right. I got more if I cried.” His voice catches, and he lets out a soft breathy moan, his lashes fluttering. 

“If I failed in pouring his tea, he’d pour the water over my hands,” he continues, “And then he’d beat me when my hands shook at practice - “ Ichirou’s strokes have quickened, and Riko can’t keep his voice steady anymore. 

“Shh, that’s enough.” Ichirou says. “Good boy. Thank you for telling me.” 

Riko responds with a loud moan that sounds like Ichirou’s name. “You may come now,” he allows, and Riko does, biting down hard on his lip to keep his noises in. Pity. Ichirou would have liked to hear them. 

He pulls his hand back, and brings it to his mouth. Riko is relearning how to breathe as he watches his brother lick come off his beautiful slender fingers. He hands Ichirou the box of tissues that always stays at the edge of the desk, and takes a few for himself. The pain in his knee is now just a dull throb, and he’s feeling pleasantly warm and boneless. He tucks himself back into his underwear and trouswers, and brings his appearance to some semblance of being put together. 

“Thank you, my Lord,” he murmurs. He hadn’t realized the tenson and mounting fear and anxiety in him, until they were an absence that no longer weighed his steps. Ichirou smiles indulgently. 

They walk in silence to their rooms, but as Riko moves to continue down the hall, Ichirou’s hand at his elbow stills him pleasantly. 

“You may rest with me,” Ichirou says. 

Riko swiftly changes his course. He wonders if Nathan is rolling over in his grave right now, knowing that Riko shot him, and that he’s now going to be in the same bed, where ichirou last laid with Nathan. After I helped your son and your wife get their revenge. After I fucked your son. Nathan had always been good to him. But in the end, Riko had to look out for himself, when no one else would. 

He helps Ichirou undress, and kisses the myriad of self-inflicted scars covered by his bright traditional tattoos. He would have liked to thank Ichirou with his mouth, but his knee is a pressing concern, so instead, he returns the favor with his hands in the shower. Ichirou hides his face in Riko’s neck, and murmurs softly, lovingly, “Monster,” as he spills into Riko’s eager palm.


End file.
